Sick Sammy was usually feverish.

T-shirt had been tackled. Boot laces had been wrestled into submission. Shower was taken. Pajamas were donned. Medicine was administered – Maalox to soothe the acid-burned throat, aspirin and water for the headache, Gatorade for the dehydration.

So, before it was ten pm, drunk, hung-over, sick Sam was in bed, resting if not outright sleeping. Dean turned on the TV and found an old John Wayne movie. The one with Ricky Nelson, Sheriff Lobo, and a very young Angie Dickinson in very tight tights. Yeah, Dean decided he could watch that movie.

Now, about an hour or more in, Ricky had just started singing about some girl he had no intention of marrying when Sam decided to spike a fever.

"It's cold. It's too cold. Why is it so cold in here?" Sam asked. He sounded exhausted, hung-over and raspy.

"It's not the room, Sammy. It's you." Dean pulled the top blanket off of his bed and reached over to unfold it over Sam. He wasn't surprised at the fever. Sick Sammy was usually feverish. "Here, this'll help. I think it's too soon for you to take more aspirin."

Sam pulled the blanket tight around the other blankets already pulled tight.

"Uh hunh…thanks..."

Dean went back to the tights – um, the movie – and kept half an eye on Sam, who was burrowed in his blankets, but not shivering. If he started shivering, Dean would dose him up again with aspirin.

Then Sam suddenly roused and threw his blankets back.

"Sam?"

"Hot. M'hot."

Or – if Sam got too hot, Dean would dose him up again.

"Drink some more Gatorade. I'll get you some more aspirin."

"I can get it." Sam said. He started to push himself out of bed.

"I don't want to have to pick you up off the floor, Sammy. Let me get it."

Sam fell back with a moan and Dean went over to his duffle to scoop out the aspirin and get Sam another hit of water. He had barely unzipped the zipper when he heard the sound of Sam stumbling his way through the room, off his bed and over his backpack, around the table, into a chair, over to –

"Sammy? Where're you going?"

"Turn the heat on. M'cold. Wanna turn the heat on."

"It is on, Sam. The heat's on in here."

"Then up. I gotta turn it up."

Dean intercepted Sam on his way to the thermostat. He got him by the shoulders and turned him around.

"Go back to bed. Blankets will get you warmer a lot faster than turning the heat up will. C'mon."

Sam turned and headed back to bed.

"But turn the heat up, okay, Dean? M'cold."

"Sure thing, Sammy."

But as soon as Sam was back in bed, Dean got the aspirin and water and dosed Sam, prepared to lie if Sam asked about the thermostat.

But Sam no sooner pulled the blankets back around himself than "It's too hot," he pushed the blankets back off of his shoulders with an aggravated huff. His voice was rough.

"Okay." Dean set the glass on the table and sat on the bed next to Sam to feel his forehead. "Well, you're not burning up, that's good. Just let the aspirin have a chance to work."

"Yeah."

"So, tell me – why did you try to pickle your liver today?"

"I didn't." Sam answered, in a voice that sounded suspiciously close to a whine. "I just – I was just –"

"Just drinking that bartender dry."

Sam didn't try to argue with that.

"I just – lost track."

"Mmm hmmm…" Dean said, in his 'I'm not buying it' voice.

Sam started shivering and pulled the blankets up.

"I just – started thinking about all the times I've let you down and – and – I just wanted to stop thinking it."

"So you decided to hit yourself in the head with a liquid hammer."

"I just lost track."

Dean didn't call Sam on that the second time. He stood up and picked up the empty water glass.

"Like I said, Sammy – we hurt each other. That's what we do."

"No, you've never let me down."

"Talk to me again after you sober up and your brain cells aren't slopping over." Dean said. He set the glass on the kitchen cupboard and switched off the light over the microwave. "Try and get some sleep."

"Yeah."

Dean got comfortable on his own bed and turned his attention back to Angie and her tights again. Sam burrowed under his blankets and into his pillows. Only to toss them back again a few minutes later.

"Ugh – I hate feeling this lousy."

"Don't worry." Dean said, barely hiding a smirk. "You'll feel worse in the morning."

UP NEXT: Feverish Sammy often hallucinates.